MR JAX
by paulnmysti
Summary: A tale from Haymitch Abernathy's life leading up to the 2nd Quarter Quell


MR. JAX

A tale from Haymitch Abernathy's life leading up to the 2nd Quarter Quell

"Not again!" Haymitch told himself.

The shooting pain was nothing new to Haymitch. He wouldn't have even noticed it, had it not been for the blood dripping down the shovel handle. Startled, he took a knee to examine his hand. Last thing he needed was for his boss, Mr. JAX, to find blood drops on his freshly dug potatoes. At first glance, this open cut on his left hand, his "good hand" as Mr. JAX liked to call it, wasn't going to clot any time soon. Worried, Haymitch quickly ripped a piece of frayed fabric from his shirt, and wrapped it tightly around the wound. "No time to rest, heal, or bleed…" he thought as he stood up, grabbing his shovel. "No way Mr. JAX is going to let me leave and get this checked out either…" The shovel began digging again. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone approaching. Knowing Mr. JAX's punishment for taking a break without permission, Haymitch tried to focus on digging.

District 12 didn't have much medicine to spare, and a trip to the local "clinic" for a cut on the hand could result in a person coming home without the proper treatment or even worse, without the hand. There were no one handed diggers in district 12, let alone in JAXLAND, the immense potato farm owned by Mr. JAX. With over 400 squares, roughly the size of 4 Capitol stadiums, the farm was the 2nd largest privately owned property, after President's Snow's estate, in all of Panem.

"One of three, one of three. Three of the luckiest people in all of district 12!" Mr. JAX would always say. Despite its enormous size, JAXLAND only employed 3 diggers. Haymitch had worked here (some say survived) the longest of the three. Haymitch still considered working here a privilege, regardless of its reputation in 12, or how Mr. JAX treated him. The job didn't pay much, but it did pay enough to feed him and his family, most of the time. "Most of the time" was a lot better than never, and many days had seen Haymitch and his family go to sleep hungry, a common scene among the families of district 12. Hunger was the Capitol's most effective weapon it used to control its citizens. Fear of The Hunger Games was a close second.

The figure in the corner of his eye started getting closer. He began to hear the all too familiar sound of boots dragging across graveled dirt. Again, Haymitch tried to focus his mind elsewhere. He began to remember life before he worked here.

Volunteering for tesserae had helped feed them sparingly in the past, but the Capitol had put a cap on the amount of times a boy or girl could do so. Unable to volunteer any more, along with the constant price spikes for grain and milk in the district, had forced Haymitch to relunctantly agree to work at JAXLAND. Everyone, including Haymitch and his family, knew that digging potatoes wasn't the only job you had to do there, but no one dared talk about it. Doing so meant the wrath of Mr. JAX or one of his bribed peacekeepers. Besides, Mr. JAX was rumored to be a personal friend to President Snow. Anyone caught talking about how Mr. JAX made his fortune was considered guilty of treason, and that meant execution by firing squad.

The figure was much closer now, and started yelling at him to stop. Haymitch continued digging, doing everything he could to ignore the figure's repeated attempts at getting his attention…and the agonizing pain in his hand.

The blood continued to flow down the shovel handle. Frustrated, Haymitch removed the dirty makeshift "bandage" and was able to pinpoint the culprit. The splintered wood chip was harder to pull out of his hand than usual, he'd done this so many times, but he still managed without so much as a whimper as the shovel's wooden handle yielded yet another tiny piece of itself. The blood started to clot, but the pain refused to leave as quickly as it had in the past. Regardless, it was time to get back to digging. Haymitch wouldn't allow the pain to interfere.

"No time to waste, especially over a little cut," he told himself as he started swinging, ignoring the flood of fiery pain that was surging from his left hand. "This one isn't giving up. It's a stubborn little tribute" he told himself. He knew he would have to do something drastic this time to make the pain disappear. He tried to think of what his family was doing at home.

"You can do this, your little brother is waiting for you to come home with food. He is hungry. Imagine the smile on his face when you walk through the door with fresh bread from Mallark's bakery. Full belly, happy face. " Haymitch smiled as the happy images of his brother and Mother eating and laughing began to take his mind far away from JAXLAND. The constant fire of pain would not surrender, regardless of where his mind was.

The figure was reaching for something on its side, its footsteps becoming a little faster.

Haymitch began tightening his grip around the shovel as he swung faster, the pain increasing with each movement. Before long he had dug deep enough to unveil yet another of the sought after brown treasures, Mr. JAX's potatoes. The sight of it was a welcome interruption. Instinctively he reached down, not knowing he had covered the potato with fresh blood.

"Ugh! Mr. Jax is going to kill me!" He yelled at himself as he tried to wipe the blood off. He threw it in his work sack along with the other 15 or so he had gathered as drops of blood continued to fill the ground around his left foot. Obviously this was not an ordinary cut, probably requiring several of Sibby's stiches, she was Mr. JAX's personal "medic" here at JAXLAND, but there was no time for that. He looked up at the sky, it's clear blue color only interrupted by the dazzling sun that rained down it's immense light, and heat. Sweat poured down his forehead, as his gazed turned downward at his work assignment for the day. 40 more squares to dig today. The swelling in his hand was making holding his shovel more and more difficult.

The figure was moving slightly to his left, coming up directly behind him.

"Today is going to be a real test, but you've been through worse. Stop wasting time and let's get this done already!" He ignored his left hand's cry for rest, and continued to swing the heavy shovel that had become his daily companion in this hot, sweaty playground. Digging was the game they played together, day after day, hour after hour, swing after swing. Pain was always on the sidelines most days, attempting to stop the game, but Haymitch wouldn't allow it to interfere. He knew that Mr. JAX would have questions about the blood puddle by his feet that was getting larger.

"One day, I will be so rich, I'll buy JAXLAND and make Mr. Jax work for me," he told himself, yelling the words so loudly in his head to distract himself from the intense heat… the shovel… his hand….the figure.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots dragging across the rugged dirt behind him. It was Mr. JAX.

"HAY. HAY. You think I missed that? I see everything on my land, tribute!" Mr. JAX's graveled voice seemed to crack the air, interrupting the swing of Haymitch's shovel. His favorite insult, "Tribute", was his way of reminding Haymitch that he was still eligible to be reaped, regardless of who his employer was. The fear accompanied by the words worked everytime. Haymitch began to turn around towards his boss.

"Mr. JAX, I think that I might have cu…" the feel of Mr. JAX's whipper across his face silenced Haymitch, the force of the hit so strong it knocked him backwards. Shocked, Haymitch regained his footing, only to feel something wet running down his neck. It was blood. Before he could utter another word, Mr. JAX connected again, this time across his chest. Haymitch fell down this time, unable to keep standing against such force. Mr. JAX marched forward, whipper swinging.

"I pay you to dig, Tribute, not to daydream! I don't care if you're bleeding, I don't care if you're crawlin, you are to dig, dig, dig!" Mr. JAX stood over the boy, Haymitch's blood coating the end of the whipper.

He had been through worse, and 15 year old Haymitch Abernathy had never given up when things looked bleak. Little did he know how worse things were going to get.


End file.
